Napoleon Solo's Pound of Flesh Affair
by GM
Summary: Revenge hits Solo at his weakest point


  
Sequel to MFU episode: **THE BRAIN KILLER AFFAIR**

Synopsis of episode: 

_THRUSH, Dr. Elmont and Dr. Dabree have kidnapped Mr. Waverly and plan to destroy his brain. Napoleon investigates. At the hospital Illya is zapped by a freeze-dart. When he comes out of it he and Napoleon_ _try to_ _save Waverly._ _Illya kills David, a big THRUSH thug,_ _Solo causes Dabree to fall down an elevator shaft, but she manages to escape with her assistant, Flostone. Elmont is zapped by his own brain killer machine and his mind is wiped out. After Dabree has escaped she vows vengeance on Solo, promising retaliation for him foiling her plans._

"I shall get Solo for you. And for Elmont. And for David. I shall make Mr. Solo pay his pound of flesh." 

_Dr. Dabree_

_The Brain Killer Affair_

"If I were inclined toward being superstitious, I'd swear someone just stepped on my grave. Come on, I prefer dancing on my grave." 

_Napoleon Solo_

_The Brain Killer Affair_

* * *

**_THE_**

**_NAPOLEON SOLO'S POUND OF FLESH_**

**_AFFAIR_**   
  
  


_' . . . let the forfeit_

_be nominated for an equal pound_

_of your fair flesh_

_to be cut off and taken_

_in what part of your body pleaseth me.'_

Merchant of Venice

_Act II_

  
  
August 1973   
  


* * *

**I**

**_"Like someone just stepped on my grave."_**

  
  
  


Turning from the airplane's window, Napoleon Solo grinned and ruffled the blond hair of his companion. "There's sun out there! It's going to be a great day." 

Kuryakin offered a subdued smile, glanced out the window, and studied his friend with twinkling eyes. "From weather forecasts to prognostication, Napoleon. Your talents are unlimited." 

The gentle sarcasm only fueled the dark-haired man's good mood. "I never know how much I miss warmth and sunlight until I come to the British Isles." He nudged his partner. "The sudden sunlight kind of gives an optimistic glow to our mission." 

It had been a wildly tumultuous year. Months before the partners had been instrumental in destroying the main complex of their arch nemesis THRUSH. Only weeks later they had run to ground and toppled the hierarchy of THRUSH along with most of the unit leaders of that dreaded organization. 

Since then UNCLE had been quickly, ruthlessly, efficiently sweeping the globe to eradicate the splinter factions of THRUSH that still held out hopes of refueling the doused fire of evil. A few major fugitives were left in various hideouts around the world. Some middle-management killers, cutthroats and malcontents had found new friends. Embraced by terrorist groups, the renegade expatriates were trying to continue their careers of mayhem and murder with innumerous militant gangs. In most cases -- so far -- the revolutionaries were far less skilled than the powerful force of UNCLE, and tracking THRUSH's remnant stragglers had proved tiresome, time-consuming, but not very dangerous. 

At this rate, Solo wryly contemplated. he might live to retire from Section Two. Necessity had obligated Waverly to waive Solo's departure as leader of the first-line operatives. Until last year he had never really considered retirement. Now forty --the mandatory field-active retirement age -- he began to ponder life beyond action assignments. And further past that, he wryly realized, there was a survivor's benefits package with his name on it! Longevity had always been a goal, but short-term -- provisional -- like getting through a torture session; a capture, a near execution, a mission. He wasn't sure he had ever thought about collecting a pension from UNCLE! 

So for most of the summer he had been in incredibly high spirits. While the constant pursuit of international criminals was tricky and exhausting, they had gone weeks without a serious threat to their lives. Most of their intellect and talent were expended in detective work and arranging decent air flights and accommodations in the hinterlands of the earth. The steam-roller effects of their tracking skills had further enhanced their reputations among world law enforcement participants. Interpol, MI6 and even the NSA were cooperative and respectful. A few had even offered them (mostly Kuryakin, he admitted without too much jealousy) some impressive enticements to defect away from UNCLE. At this period of their turbulent careers they were at the crest of an incredible wave and not about to change surfboards, so there was no thought of leaving UNCLE. 

Self-aware enough to understand himself, Solo also recognized the fall of THRUSH had been an incredible boost to his morale. For the last several years his career had caused increasing tension for him. UNCLE and their arch-rivals seemed too well matched and the good guys had suffered terrible losses. Too often those loses nearly included Illya and/or him. Accounted in that external battle was the inner conflict with Waverly to keep their partnership intact. They were too good together for the boss to break them apart permanently, but their personal allegiance to the partnership had caused a conflict of interest for their loyalties. Too many times either or both had chosen their partner's life over UNCLE goals. 

Lately his mood, actually, was one of flushed superiority. Dangerous for a spy running on too little sleep and too much success, he silently exhorted himself. Their quarries seemed to be unable to hide from them. Every mission to expose their enemies brought continued victories. Over-confidence was one of his pitfalls, and a little voice within cautioned him to tread carefully. The Solo luck had been working on overtime this summer and it wouldn't last forever. The whispered warnings were not absorbed very deeply, however. Today, while smugly contemplating the future, danger signals were forgotten when one of the stunning blond stewardesses stopped by his seat and asked if she could do anything for him. After a few flirtatious exchanges, she went about her business with one last, long appreciative look at the senior agent. He expected to have her phone number at the end of the flight, so all cautionary thoughts drifted away on a pleasant contemplation of his magnificent life. 

With the break up of THRUSH the pressure was off for the partners to be strictly obedient to orders and official dictates. Waverly didn't care what they did or how they did it, as long as the THRUSH stragglers were quickly eliminated as threats to the world. In this crucial time in history with global unrest and terrorists burgeoning as the new, and very dangerous international hazard, it was imperative former THRUSH killers did not connect with disaffected revolutionaries. Such violent professionals, in small splinter groups, could prove even more perilous for society than THRUSH. The motivation suited Solo just fine. Whatever the cause, he was pleased to have his partnership with Kuryakin safeguarded. 

The plane taxied to a halt and the agents stood, gathering their carry on bags. Two stewardesses paused, flirtatiously winking at Solo and slipping a piece of paper to Illya, who pocketed it with a sly grin. Napoleon clumsily tried to pick his friend's pocket and they engaged in a mock-debate for the stewardesses. 

"A rendezvous, I hope?" Solo leered over his friend's shoulder as they walked toward the exit hatch. 

"Napoleon, remember that little pub just outside of Manion --" 

"With the cozy little rooms above? What did I tell you? This is going to be a great day! I love Ireland." 

Almost at the door, Solo stopped in his tracks and spun around as a cold chill stealing swept through his bones. His right hand crept to the pistol-grip of his Walther. Quickly scanning the faces around him he detected no one staring at him, no obvious threat. Yet his instincts had suddenly reacted to something subliminal -- something he noticed without understanding or recognizing. An unseen peril -- as if he was being stalked. 

Instinctively in tune with his friend's reactions, Illya stepped out of the aisle, his hand also reaching for his pistol, automatically inspecting the crowd. 

"What?" 

Unsettled, Solo shook his head and placed a hand on the shorter man's shoulder, urging him to move along. "I don't know, but it just felt --" he gave a nervous laugh. "Like someone just walked over my grave." 

Kuryakin glared at his friend in annoyance. "That's not something to joke about, my friend. Especially in Ireland. We are entering very superstitious country." 

"It didn't feel like much of a joke," Napoleon admitted with a lingering chill snaking along his spine. "Come on, let's go." With a last look around the other passengers he followed his friend out into the warm Irish sunlight, still feeling traces of unknown eyes boring into his back.   
  
  


*** 

  
  
  


The day deteriorated steadily as it wore on. The meeting with the local police in the coastal town of Manion was depressing and tense. The Irish Republican Army was mounting a stiff campaign of terror and the British troops and the police were in no mood to hear the bad news that former THRUSH operatives were probably involved. Nor were the locals interested in UNCLE's involvement in their already established operations. The authorities refused to grant the agents permission to investigate on their own. 

Solo and Kuryakin did not want to go along with the official establishment methods, considering them inadequate procedures against experienced THRUSH operatives. The moderator, and voice of reason amid the two factions, was a British officer assigned as liaison between the locals and the international enforcement agents. 

"You are dealing with warfare unlike anything in your experience," Illya insisted sternly. The impassive faces around them did not alter from inflexible skepticism. "We have dealt with these sophisticated criminals before." 

"For your information, Mister-double-oh-seven, we do not need you to tell the Irish how to handle villains!" 

"These are not street corner thugs. They have weapons and devices you've never dreamt of before!" Illya flung back sharply. 

"We do not need foreigners to come into our bailiwick and dictate tactics to us!" the police commander insisted. His pale face flushed with anger, his green eyes flaring with ire. "We've been dealing with terrorists since before you were born." 

Not to be out maneuvered, the Russian tenaciously retorted, "It would be ridiculous to allow your pride to aid these criminals." His volley tight, he reasoned, "Let us help you! The last thing you should want is for these assassins to infiltrate the IRA!" 

The hot-headed Irish came to their feet en mass as did the irate Russian. In allied support the Brit and the American stood to back their respective colleagues. Amid the shouts and threats, Solo pulled his friend out of the room and down the corridor of the old building. They stopped at a small kitchen providing coffee, tea and biscuits. Napoleon pushed Illya against the wall and pressed a cup of tea into his hand. 

"So much for diplomacy." 

"You know our methods --" 

"Are right, yes," he sighed, a trace of the recently abandoned cynicism creeping to the surface. 

It had not been an easy few years breaking the iron-fisted hold of THRUSH. In most cases there was no time for cooperation and the agents moved in and did things their own way. This scene was so typical of the local reaction to the big-bad-UNCLE agents arriving on their turf. The senior agent was considering reverting to their usual method and striking out on their own. Unfortunately, allying with the locals would save a lot of time and effort since the cops knew the territory and criminal hide-outs and the visiting UNCLE men did not. 

"But your tact is a little frayed, tovarich." 

Gulping down the hot tea Illya gave a little yelp. "I didn't hear you offering any substantial support --" 

"One of us has to be the good guy." At Illya's malevolent glare Napoleon smiled and managed to charm the irritation mostly out of the blue Russian eyes. He patted his friend's back and took the cup of tea away. Then with his arm around the slighter shoulders, he steered the shorter man toward the door. "Why don't you take a walk in the nice summer air," he suggested as they stepped out onto the sidewalk. "Cool off a little. I'll go back in and see what I can negotiate." Leaning close, he whispered in Kuryakin's ear, "And while you're out you can case the neighborhood. Then, whatever is decided, we'll go with our own plan tonight." 

A slow grin spread across the blonde's face. "Thank you, Napoleon. You have restored my faith in your sanity." 

Offering a mock frown, Napoleon quipped that he felt slighted by such a remark. That insult would cost Illya the price of dinner at the pub, with the stewardesses. After they had finished their work with the IRA and THRUSH stragglers, of course. 

"You are optimistic," Kuryakin approved. "Especially since I was the one who got the phone number." Solo scowled, triggering a responding grin from the blond. "I'll be back for lunch." 

"Certainly." 

Solo gave a salute and turned back to enter the police station. For a moment he watched Illya walk away. Shivering with abrupt cold, Napoleon examined the street, the windows, the doorways, again feeling as if he was being watched. Solo's gaze then stayed with his friend until the blond was out of sight. What was his sixth sense telling him? Stepping inside the station, he puzzled over the instinctive alert while he tried to formulate a plan to work with the locals.   
  
  
  
  


**II**

**_"Someone really hates you."_**

  
  
  


After grueling negotiations the police and army representatives agreed on a joint strike force using some of UNCLE's methods and equipment. It was an almost inadequate compromise, but probably the best deal Solo could manage. Officially. Unofficially, the two agents would go after some suspected THRUSH associates after dark. One of the suspected hide-outs looked promising. And it had been a long time since Illya had indulged in the sport of burglarizing a museum. That ought to please his eccentric friend. 

In a show of camaraderie, the police captain offered to stand for lunch at the corner pub. Napoleon glanced at his watch, amazed it was after two in the afternoon. They emerged from the back room with the agent expecting his partner to be waiting in the tea room. No Illya. When he inquired to the officers, no one in the station had seen Kuryakin all afternoon. 

Suspicion leaped immediately atop his sense of foreboding and he had to quell the overt apprehension that instantly flooded him. There was no reason to be so anxious, but an inner feeling of dread started to solidify. The subtle, dark impressions dogging him all day had culminated into something terrible. Illya's absence was not coincidental, nor was it Illya accidentally losing track of time. 

Excusing himself from the others, Solo crossed to the nearest desk and took a seat. Opening his communicator he used their private security band -- Channel **S** -- and received no answer. He phoned their hotel. No answer in the room and the desk clerk had not seen Illya since the two left this morning. Suppressing his alarm, he left, trailing in the direction his partner had gone earlier. 

Checking in at the nearest pub; a few shops, asking a market vendor on the street, Napoleon found very little to go on. One woman remembered the unusually dressed young blond man with the dark turtleneck shirt and the black jacket. He had turned off the main lane into a mews behind the grocer's. Following the trail, Napoleon found no sign of Illya, or of a struggle. As he emerged from the mews, however, the tingling at the back of his neck returned. Casually scanning the street, he saw no one paying any attention to him. Glancing into the windows of the pub, the dressmakers, the grocer's, the curio shop, he saw nothing suspicious. Still, his skin was crawling with anxiety, made all the more ominous because of his friend's disappearance. 

Within the hour, his partner still missing, he returned to the police station and reluctantly reported the abduction to the abrasive authorities. Surprisingly, the police captain was sympathetic and all business. They knew intimately about kidnappings in this part of the world. Darkly, he reminded, they usually turned out badly. He suspected their enemies heard about UNCLE's involvement and went after the agent to distract and damage the law. Set the good guys back a few paces. 

Not too sure about the assessment, Napoleon nonetheless went along with the plan to raid the IRA stronghold they had pinpointed as the new home of feathered fugitives. Going in like gangbusters was not his style, but he had to rely on the expertise of the home team here. And he worried that breaking in like a SWAT unit would spook the captors into killing his friend. He suggested a "solo" incursion first, but the authorities over-rode him and mobilized for immediate action. Unable to stop them, with no time to strike out on his own, Napoleon followed the police and crossed his fingers that the assault wouldn't be the death of his partner.   
  
  


*** 

  
  
  


Uncomfortable in the bulky bullet-proof vest and gas mask, Solo still insisted on being with the first group of officers. They would go in first -- through the side door of the abandoned wharf warehouse in an old part of the dock city. The police were impressively skilled at their job and five out of the seven criminals in the moldy building went down in a hail of bullets. 

Quickly searching the several floors of the old cavern, Solo found no trace of Kuryakin. 

One of the remaining survivors was easily recognized as a former THRUSH thug. Bleeding heavily, the man probably wouldn't live to see the outside. Crouching beside him, Solo impatiently demanded answers. 

"Where are you keeping my partner?" 

The man shook his head. "Pain. Get me something for the pain." 

Napoleon removed the gas mask and clutched onto the man's shirt collar. "Do you know who I am?" 

"Solo," he spat out. 

"Who is my partner?" 

"The Russian," he choked after more physical persuasion. 

Aware of the officials gathered around him, Napoleon was prepared to ferociously demand a finish to the interrogation. He didn't run on any rule book but the one written by Illya and him. If his partner was in danger there would be no limits to his methods, no boundaries to what he would do to find Kuryakin. 

"Where is he?" 

"Not here." Solo tightened the collar until the man gasped for air. When the material was released, he coughed out, "Relic -- old enemy." He laughed raucously. "Someone --" he started gasping for air " -- really hates you." 

His eyes rolled back and the body went limp. He hadn't lasted as long as Napoleon expected. For once, however, a THRUSH had proven useful and given him something important. Unfortunately, not Illya's exact location, or even if the Russian was still alive. 

The police cleaned up the bodies while the UNCLE agent scoured the premises for clues. Various equipment and weapons were left behind, some of them THRUSH issue. No documents of any kind remained. Officially the operation was over. Removing the bullet proof vest, Solo told them he was going after his partner. The police offered back up, but Napoleon declined. 

An old enemy. Someone who hated him. Illya could get killed if they mounted a frontal assault. Personal. An old enemy. He better handle this himself. Somehow he had the bad feeling that was what was expected of him. It didn't phase him that he was probably walking into a trap. As long as he got Kuryakin out in one piece he didn't care how he accomplished his goal. 

Relic. Did that mean the old enemy as in aged? Or from the very distant past? Or was Illya being held in a place containing relics? 

"If I'm not back in an hour, send some troops to the museum at the end of the high street." 

The police chief was clearly confused. "What? You think your partner is there? Why go in alone?" 

"I think that's the only way to get him back alive."   
  
  
  
  


**III**

**_"Take thou thy pound of flesh."_**

  
  
  
  
  


The museum was creepy even for someone who had been through -- and seen -- incredibly grotesque things in his career. The dirty windows filtered pale moonlight onto eerie shapes in the semi-darkness. Aware every step could trigger a booby-trap, he walked carefully, alert for any sound, any movement, anything unusual. Beyond the pale light lay the strange, vague figures of knight's armor, shields and ancient weapons. The old place was littered with musty artifacts, cobwebs, and dust. Way too much dust. The place had been derelict for years. So where was Illya? 

In one of the back rooms on the ground floor he found a trail, but it hardly encouraged him. Dust was smeared aside as if something had been dragged along the silty floor. A thin track of blood glistened in the meager light. He withdrew the flashlight from his pocket and gripped the Walther in his right hand. Heart in his throat, he slowly, cautiously, followed the red smears and drops along the dusty, uneven stones, up carved steps to the first floor.   
  


The trail of blood led him to a room in the far, upper corner of the museum. There he found Illya's smashed communicator and nothing else. Except that the smeared dust and blood marks ended next to one of the windows. He carefully avoided the evidence and glanced out the dirty glass to the street far below. The sill was smudged with red. As if a body was dumped out, falling into -- into something -- and taken away, he deduced grimly.   
  
  


*** 

  
  
  


_"Why, this bond is forfeit; And lawfully by this the Jew may claim, A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off. Nearest the merchant's heart."_

Illya was certain he was dreaming. He had to be. Except for the pain. How could he hurt so if he was asleep? Was it a nightmare? Was Napoleon watching a play in the other room? Shakespear, he knew, but forgot the details of his Oxford English classes that would supply him with the details. 

"Portia, Mr. Kuryakin. Do you not recognize the words?" 

The gravely voice unnerved him. He blinked his eyes open, realizing he had been correct in all his disoriented imaginings. This WAS a terrible nightmare and he WAS in pain. Agonizing aches in his head, his hands, his arms. Blearily he opened his eyes. Hands strung over his head, he was dangling from a chain. Aside from that only darkness receded around him. 

_"A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off nearest the merchant's heart."_

Her dread pronouncement boomed from somewhere close. He decided not to comment. What could he possibly say? The literal threat of extracting a pound of flesh was too creepy to contemplate. He certainly hoped it didn't apply to him! In this pose he was hardly in a position to defend himself from the lurid dismemberment. 

_"You are nearest your merchant's heart, Mr. Kuryakin. I did not realize that until recently. Soon enough to fit into my plan. In other words, you are the bait."_

He certainly didn't like the sound of that. Afraid he already knew the details, he waited. The voice -- a gravely, scraping trail of threats that oozed out of the darkness like tangible slime. He didn't want to think about how dire this predicament might be, but if he could keep her -- was it a her? -- talking, then maybe he could think of a plan. Or he could stay alive until Napoleon found him. Certainly his friend was -- somewhere -- trying to find him. He hoped. 

_"Just as Shylock calls vengeance down on Bassario by threatening Antonio, I have the forfeit. You are my Antonio. But it will be dear Mr. Solo who surrenders his pound of flesh. After he has witnessed me take a measure of flesh from you."_

Suppressing a groan, Illya closed his eyes and concentrated on utilizing his senses. _'Discover something about the environment from sounds,'_ he urged silently. If he could determine nothing from sight, then use his other trained and attuned senses, he admonished himself. Feel the shackles on his wrists and take some experimental tugs. Anything to free himself before he became the Judas goat that brought his friend to slaughter. 

"Why are you doing this?" 

_"Why?"_ came a screech out of the gloom. _"How can you ask?"_

"Who are you?" 

_"What? You have forgotten? Oh, Mister Kuryakin, you will remember, I promise you. And so shall your dear Mister Solo. The reasons for your death will become very clear. And in the short time you have left to live you will remember all the pain you have caused me."_   
  
  
  
  
  
  


**IV**

**_The pound of flesh, which I demand of him,_**   
**_Is dearly bought; 'tis mine and I will have it._**

Three floors of the museum were searched, and the mews below, and the police officers acting as back-up had come and gone. Solo was no closer to finding his friend. Anxiety was rapidly advancing to dread. What if Illya was already dead? No, he couldn't think that, but after so long without a ransom demand, without a trap, what else could he think? 

The brooding cynicism that shadowed him for the last few years reasserted instantly in a black cloak of fatalism. He leaned on the wall and looked out the grimy window at the little village. The high street was empty except for the nightly activity at the pub down the lane. Few of the windows in the back of the houses and shops were lit. His breath caught in his throat. Was that a light in the curio shop? It should have been closed hours ago. And unlike some of the merchants on high street, this establishment had no rooms above the shop where the owner lived. In fact, now that he thought about it, the curio shop had been closed today. 

Dampening his excitement, he rushed downstairs and out to the mews. No one was around. Should he call the police? Prudence dictated that he do so, but he was too impatient to wait. Besides, if someone were holding Illya in the shop they would be thrown off by the overt and loud search of the museum. They wouldn't be expecting a covert exploration now. 

The creep factor intensified when he entered the back door of the shop. It had been a simple lock to pick. In the dim reflection from the street lamps he could see bizarre shapes of stuffed animals and giant clocks, hanging tapestry and large vases. 

The blood trail led down stairs to a basement. He knew he should call the police for back-up, but he didn't want to waste the precious time. If this blood belonged to Illya he had to act fast, the thin Russian wouldn't have much left in him. 

A noise from behind froze him to immobility. Someone was entering the shop. In the shadows cast by a suit of armor he stood still, not breathing, as a cloaked figure swept by in the nearby aisle. She -- and he instinctively knew by the way she moved that it was a woman -- a tall woman -- glided down the basement stairs. Before the door closed behind her Solo slipped in and, Walther in hand, silently followed her. Until one of the old wooden slats creaked noisily. 

_'So much for stealth,'_ he inwardly sighed. 

He held his breath, took another step, and continued down. At the bottom of the aged, splintered steps, in the dank, cold cellar, stood a circle of candles. Within the glowing circle Illya Kuryakin hung by bound hands from the ceiling. In the flickering light Napoleon could see his partner's right thigh glistened, the trouser leg wet with what had to be blood. Beneath the hanging blond was a pool of glittering gore. 

"So good of you to join us, Mr. Solo." 

The gravelly voice was cracked, uneven, rattling from ill health. A woman's voice that sent chills coursing through his system. It was familiar to him, but Napoleon couldn't place it. He gripped tighter to his weapon. 

"To whom do I have the displeasure of speaking to?" 

"Your executioner, Mr. Solo." She laughed -- a shivery, bitter rasp. "Take thou thy pound of flesh. It is my turn, Solo." 

Fear rippled along his spine, clutching his throat with dread. From out of the darkness a flash registered at the periphery of his left eye. Reacting too late, he was slammed against the stone wall with what felt like a battering ram. Blinking back the swirling disorientation, he scrambled away, shooting toward the aggressor. 

"The pound of flesh, which I demand of him, is dearly bought; 'tis mine and I will have it." 

Solo wondered at the fixation with Shakespeare. He didn't think much of the content, that was for sure. If he could only get his bearings, get a bead on where the voice was coming from. But the old room echoed eerily and he didn't want to fire blinding and indiscriminately. A stray shot could ricochet and hit Illya. Obviously here was the trap he had been waiting for. A pound of flesh -- 

"Napoleon!" 

Something else hit him in the back, knocking him to the hard, abrasive stone floor, skidding the pistol out of his grip. Rolling, coming up on his feet with little coordination or balance, he pushed the hazards and surprise out of his thoughts. He had to focus on his primary goal -- saving Illya. 

"Get away!" Kuryakin warned desperately. "It's a trap!" 

A shiny wedge flew at him, again from dark obscurity, and he managed to use his hand to barely deflect it from smashing into his face. His mind recognized it as an arm plate from a suit of armor. He rolled to the floor, groping for his pistol. Eyes now adjusting to the darkness, he saw a reflection come from the right barely in time to tumble away from another crashing injury from a flying breastplate. 

Head clearing, he decided to cut his losses. No use trying to regain his weapon. Better to concentrate on getting to Illya. Stumbling to his feet he made a dash for the center of the room. 

"Get out!" Illya shouted. 

Of course Solo ignored the warning and kept charging toward his friend. Expecting something coming from the side again, he was completely surprised when, from behind, he felt the rush of air an instant before something crashed down on his back and pounded him to the floor. 

Semi-aware of the metal clutter squashing him, he decided to not move for a moment. Senses swimming, he assessed his body, pretty sure nothing was broken, just mightily bruised and battered. Perhaps it would be better to let his enemies think he was down for the count, let them believe the trap had worked. Nothing else was going well, so he would try a trap of his own. 

He almost smiled when comic-opera two hooded, cloaked figures came closer, standing just out of reach and close enough to the candles for him to see their height. One small form was hunched over. The taller, bulkier one was the woman he had followed down here. Two -- women? Suddenly his embarrassment hurt worse than the injuries. How? Vision a little blurred, he now noticed something hanging from the ceiling. Trussed up with glinting metal -- the figure appeared not unlike his trussed up partner. The women easily manipulated ropes and pulleys to throw things at him! To throw a suit of armor at him! The discovery made him feel a little less chagrinned at his easy capture. 

"Oh how the mighty have fallen, eh, Mr. Solo?" 

Pushing away some of the metal debris from his arm -- he gasped. Dabree. He suddenly recognized the grating, thin voice of the hunched figure. 

"Doctor Dabree." 

A brittle, humorless laugh cackled from the figure. She stepped forward and pushed the dark cowl back far enough for him to see the vague shapes of two eyes staring at him. "So you do remember me." 

Hard to forget the wretched, mad scientist who experimented on brains along with her colleague Dr. Elmont. After their attempt to capture and operate on Mr. Waverly several years ago, Elmont was killed and Dabree and her assistant missing. Napoleon had never given them another thought. What a mistake that was, he ruefully acknowledged. 

"The last time I saw you, weren't you at the bottom of an elevator shaft?" 

"You nasty creature!" she cried. A shaft of metal glinted -- an extension of her arm under the black robe. Stepping into the candle circle she viciously slashed out and swiped a sword across Illya's injured thigh. Illya yelped. "Any more of your foul impudence and your friend won't live long at all, Solo!" She sliced again, but Illya managed to barely swing just out of reach. _"If you prick us do we not bleed? If you wrong us shall we not revenge?"_ she cackled. 

"I always hate your parties, Napoleon," Kuryakin gasped. 

Carefully pushing aside the entrapping armor, Napoleon came to his knees, favoring his left arm. Aware he was looking a bit like his namesake with his arm tucked against his side, he tried to present a controlled, rather than comical figure. "What do you want?" His breath was short, mostly an act to make them think he had been injured, but there was no denying the attack had wounded him, diminished his capacity to fight at full mettle. He had to take that into account as he tried to free Illya and get them both out of this alive..   


"I told you. Your pound of flesh." She swung the sword in a dramatic arc until the tip pointed toward his face. " _' . . . let the forfeit_

_be nominated for an equal pound of your fair flesh to be cut off and taken in what part of your body pleaseth me.' " _Her vioce rattled with hysteria. "You killed David!" She wobbled closer, the blade shaking, hovering close to his nose. "You killed Elmont! I promised them all I would have your pound of flesh!" 

Gulping down the revulsion at the thought of this beast having any human emotions, Napoleon fought to focus, to channel his instincts and skill into survival. Irritated and upset that they were in this predicament, he struggled to think up some brilliant ploy. They had been captured so easily. Two women had managed to imprison and really hurt Illya and him. They were mad, obviously, but that didn't mean they were easy to overpower. Sometimes madness was more threatening than good old-fashioned evil. 

"Okay, you want revenge. Let my friend go. Deal with me." 

The laughter echoed around the eerie room and Napoleon's blood turned cold. It was a vile rattle of superiority and he worried about what he didn't know yet. Crazy foes always had something really unsavory up their sleeves, and right now the good guys were not doing so well. And the bad guys were extraordinarily demented. 

_"A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off nearest the merchant's heart."_

Swallowing the horror knotting his throat, he forced his voice to remain level, cool, egotistical. He couldn't let them know the effectiveness of their strategy. His greatest vulnerability was known to his enemy. Hurting Illya because of him was the worst agony he could imagine. Now he had to find a way to turn that around and save them. 

"Why make him suffer?" he casually wondered. "Kuryakin's not the one who killed Elmont. I did that, you know." 

"And I will make you pay dearly for killing him!" She swung the blade toward the helpless Russian. "Don't you think I know all about you and your partner? Flo saw you on the plane. I saw you together in the street. The way you hang on him. Your little pet. _A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off nearest the merchant's heart_." 

"Pet!" Illya protested. "You don't mean --" he groaned. 

Solo couldn't help the snort of amazement. "My -- pet?" 

Illya coughed out a sighed, "Oh, not this again." 

Clearing his throat, disconcerted he could be so irritated at stupidity in these dire circumstances, Napoleon sneered, "Don't be insulting. We're partners -- I mean, we work together as a team -- not as -- um -- not that kind of partnership." 

Years before, when their unexpected, fantastically successful partnership had developed into a tight friendship there had been rumors that they were on more intimate terms than just friends. Mostly whispered, vicious gossip from agents jealous over their astounding achievements and their close bond. Solo had squashed those rumors very effectively and they hadn't cropped up in years. At least not within his hearing. Veteran operatives in UNCLE knew better than to start that kid of innuendo again. That Dabree thought there was something deviant between them would have been laughable in other particulars. Right now it wasn't at all funny for Illya or him. 

They were brothers. In their profession that really said it all. To think them more intimate on a physical level was to diminish their true devotion and commitment to each other. Napoleon treated his lovers with physical tenderness, but never any emotional connection. To think he treated Illya like that was insulting and negating to their whole relationship -- diminishing the commitment, affection and regard he held for his friend. 

Ridiculously, he felt he had to get this straightened out. Reasoning with a madwoman? That was crazy. The more pertinent goal was to escape, but his stubborn pride just would let this drop. 

"Okay, I don't want you to hurt him because he's my partner. You know, my UNCLE partner." 

"Don't try to lie to me!" The sword moved closer to Illya. "I've seen how you touch him!" 

He didn't have to look at Illya to feel the disapproval. When they were first thrown together as a team Napoleon had made it his special project to acclimate his new ally into American society. Solo's naturally gregarious nature included the aloof Russian when Illya did not want to be part of the scene. Despite their differences and guarded defenses against personal vulnerabilities (Napoleon's inner feelings were as shielded as Illya's) they had grown to be friends. Solo, being the more outgoing, the more physical by nature, had quickly broken down the protected space around the Russian. Signs of affection were common between them and never worth noting. At least not until now. 

Solo edged up to his knees. "Look, don't hurt him!" he desperately pleaded, hoping to distract her attention from his friend. So far, anything he said made her mad and she took it out on Illya. Maybe it was time to say things she might approve of. "What do you want form me?" 

The tactic worked and she swung back around, unevenly thrusting the weapon toward his face. "Suffering. Pain. Torment for you, Solo. Watching, as I get my pound of flesh from your friend, you will suffer as I have. Then," she laughed wickedly, "I will come for you. When I finally come to carve you up you will lose so much more than a pound of flesh, Solo." Again, she laughed. _"As Shylock says, ' Ay, his breast: So says the bond: doth it not, noble judge? 'Nearest his heart:' those are the very words._

In the darkness she would miss him paling, fortunately. He felt his nerves freeze and gulped away the swelling in his dry throat. What could he do to turn the tables on this madwoman? 

"Whatever you want to do, do it to me. I'm the one you hate." 

The sword-tip sliced along his neck and came to rest at the base of his throat. "That is exactly what I am going to do. Yes, I hate you. Yes, I will do what I want with you, Solo. First, though, you'll see the one you love die. Slowly." The very sharp blade trailed down his shirt, slicing through to the skin all the way to the arm he was protecting. "Then I will get my pound of flesh from you!" She lunged, plunging the cutting edge across his left side. 

Hissing in pain he feinted to the left and with his left arm and hand seized the sword out of her grasp. Swiftly, violently he shoved her back and off her feet. Ignoring the agony of his palm slicing on the sharp blade, he carried through the motion, his momentum knocking him into the accomplice, tumbling them both into a tangle on the floor. 

Struggling to his feet he staggered over to his friend and sliced through the rope. Kuryakin dropped heavily to the ground, the bonds around his wrist falling away. In the same motion Solo scrambled over and grabbed Illya, pushing them both into the dank, unknown corners of the room as the darkness flared with gunfire. Moans of pain and anger echoed in the cluttered room. 

Bullets rippled around them as they scrambled behind crates, shields, stuffed animals and pieces of armor. Keeping them in unsteady flight, Solo carried/dragged his friend along, heading toward the staircase. 

"What took you so long?" 

Hardly catching his breath, Solo glanced at his partner. "You all right?" 

"Well enough to get out of here," the Russian whispered back, glancing around for a sign of their enemies. 

Solo pressed his bleeding hand against his side. "Can you run?" 

"Just watch me." 

Solo smiled. "Okay. Any other exits?" He looked around, unable to discern anything in the dim light cast only by a few of the candles still alight in the center of the dungeon. 

"There might be some windows covered by the mess in here, but all I've seen is the front door." 

"Then we have to make a break for it." Close enough to feel the breath on his cheek, Solo could barely discern any expression on his friend's face. He felt more than observed the fear, and it nearly unnerved him. 

"I have only one problem." 

Napoleon almost smiled. Even when things seemed so grim, it helped to have his friend at his side. "Only one?" 

"A big one. My arms are numb. I can't move them." 

Solo hissed out a sigh. "This is never easy." 

"Never," Kuryakin agreed with a matching sigh. "Why didn't you tell me it was so dangerous to be your friend?" 

"I thought I could keep the secret." 

"I want a divorce." 

"People will talk." 

"They will talk anyway." His lips thinned out into a grim line. "We have to kill her you know. If she was captured, and returned to UNCLE with her gossip . . . ." 

Pressed tightly together in a corner made by crates, Solo could feel the blood from his friend's wound soak through his trouser material. "Don't worry, tovarich, she's already dead." 

Illya offered a grave nod. "All right, but do you have any other disgruntled women out for your blood? Or flesh?" 

"Not that I'm willing to talk about right now." He forced his friend down to the floor at the side of the steps. Gunfire and shouts still made enough noise to cover their escape. "Ready?" 

"More than you know." Kuryakin placed a strong grip on his arm. "They hate you, Napoleon. I don't want to remain to be part of their plans. Especially when I'm the target thanks to you." 

The understated tone made the danger seem negligible, but there was an undercurrent of anxiety. That revelation was really alarming to the normally cool American. Of course, being tied up like a pig to be butchered would be unnerving, and Illya had been bleeding for hours, so he was probably close to shock and a perilous level of blood loss. Still, it took a lot to get to the aloof Russian, and from the shaky voice, the trembling hand, he could tell Illya was distraught. Whatever mind games had been played had been effective. 

"Yeah," he agreed with a shiver. "You certainly couldn't afford to lose a pound of flesh. And I'm not volunteering mine. We're getting out of here now," Solo assured, patting the younger man's arm. "We're heading right up those stairs. Don't stop for anything. And I mean anything. Agreed?" 

"Agreed." 

With a shove Napoleon pushed various pieces of junk toward the center of the room. Knowing that was the cue, Kuryakin limped toward the stairs. His leg was weak, his arms still nearly useless and Solo had to propel him up to grab hold of the railing. Struggling, Illya tried to lift himself up and over, but did not have the might. Solo pushed -- using only his uninjured right hand -- then fell back, both collapsing under the strain. 

"No use," the senior agent whispered. 

Crouched next to his friend, Illya felt along Napoleon's left side. "How bad? I can't see in this light." 

"Don't know." 

"You're drenched and it's certainly not my blood." 

Solo pushed the hands away from his side. "Not much strength. We have to move fast. I'll use my right shoulder." He leaned against the old, creaking wood. "Go." 

The Russian hesitated. "I can't leave -- " 

"Go!" he shot back in a scraping hiss. "I'll be right behind you." 

Reluctant, Illya at first resisted. When he saw, in the low light, Solo's glare of determination, he gave a tight nod. With a grimace he knelt on Solo's shoulder. A boost pushed him up and he crawled through the wooden rails then up the steps toward the door. 

The escape and the extra power to help his friend had exhausted Solo. His side throbbing, his left arm and hand weak and nearly unusable, he paused to catch his breath. The door opened and he felt renewed in the knowledge Illya had made it. Slipping the sword into his belt he grabbed onto the rail and pulled himself up with his right arm. 

"The door!" Flostone shouted. 

Barely onto the squeaking steps, Napoleon rolled to his back and drew the sword in time to impale the advancing Flostone. The force of her running attack was so mighty the blade broke off from the hilt and she tumbled back down the stairs. 

"No!" screamed Dabree. "I'll get you for this, Solo!" 

He heard a squeak of the pulley and noticed swaying armor just above his head. Illya was there suddenly, reaching back for him. 

"Napoleon!" 

"I told you -- not to -- stop." 

All Solo could think of was getting his friend out of the way. With all his energy he gave Kuryakin a mighty shove and pushed him back toward the door. An instant later it felt like the ceiling crashed atop his back. The collapse drove all the air out of his lungs and he gasped. Illya tried to lift some of the armor, but didn't have the strength. Blackness was closing in on his vision and his head felt thick, his lungs filled with cotton. 

From the floor, Dr. Dabree was wildly firing an UNCLE special, the bullets ricocheting around them. The staircase wobbled dangerously. 

"Get going," Solo gasped. 

"No." 

Napoleon pushed his hand away. "Not your revenge. My party." As he felt the steps give out he shoved Illya away as the wood gave out beneath him as he plunged to darkness. Emptiness and nausea swirled in his head and stomach, as Bassanio's lines from Shakespeare echoed in his mind. 

_Good cheer, Antonio! What, man, courage yet! The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones and all, Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood._   
  
  


**V**

**_"And you must cut this flesh from off his breast"_**

  
  
  


Instinctive survival motives propelled Kuryakin through the doorway just as the staircase collapsed from under him. Rolling to safety in the rear room of the curio shop, he rammed into a table and clutter rained down on him. Senses blacked and when he returned to awareness he gasped with surprise. Precious moments passed as his disoriented brain assessed that the ferocious lion cub on his chest was stuffed. 

Catching his breath, he blinked, orienting his senses and his vision. Pale street light came in from the windows wet with fog. Outside there was silence. Inside, behind the door to the basement, the silence of the tomb. Feeling and motion partially returned to his right arm, he slowly started removing objects from his body. Able to breathe better, he shifted, working at getting out from under the table. The extended effort cost him too much strength and he fell back on the floor in exhaustion. He had to get going and help Napoleon. What had happened to his friend? 

Faint foot scrapes sounded from outside and he could hear someone whistling. Perhaps a late night patron leaving the pub? Illya cried out, shouting, but his voice was tired and weak. Seizing onto whatever he could grab he started pelting items at the window. One heavy goblet broke the glass and sailed through to the street below. 

"Hey!" someone cried out. 

Encouraged, Illya threw several more trinkets until he could no longer lift his hand. Laying back, he groaned, mumbling out calls for help. Someone had to come soon. He had to save Napoleon. Eye level with the bottom of the basement door, he realized something was different. Coughing, he recognized a thin layer of fog -- no -- smoke! trailing out of the basement! 

"Napoleon . . . ." he warned, before he closed his eyes in utter exhaustion.   
  
  


*** 

  
  
  


Dabree approached with the manic instability of the insane. She fired the Walther until the bullets were gone. Then she snatched up a piece of armor and swung it like a club. Slamming it onto the metal burying Solo, the blows had only muted effect. Pinned down, weak and hurt, he could offer little resistance under the crush of armor. As Dabree pounded, though, the pile started to break away and Solo flexed his limbs. Another few blows and he could turn the tables. 

The passionate, ineffective strikes caused her to slip and she fell to her knees. Solo twisted around and lunged, grabbing her club with his right hand. Using both feet he shoved her back. She stumbled to the floor, the sleeve of her black robe catching in the scattered candles. With a horrendous cry of pain she flopped over into more candles. Instantly she was a human torch, rolling toward the wall of the dungeon. 

With sickening fascination, Napoleon watched, too fatigued and stunned to act. Dabree crashed into some crates and two toppled onto her flaming body. There were no more cries of twitching movement. Coughing from the smoke, Napoleon realized the crates were now on fire. 

Slowly he came up on an elbow, then an arm. Leaning against the clutter of armor he looked up at the door so far away. On a good day it would be tricky to make it up there. Wounded, with little strength left, it was pretty hopeless. Not one to give up or give in, Napoleon momentarily felt a wave of depression hit him. This time it didn't look good. He was, however, still too much of an egotist to allow an old woman to kill him. 

Struggling up, staggering across the floor, he scanned the room. The battle had moved storage boxes, and the blaze lighted the dark room. Revealed now were some small windows up by the ceiling. If only he could get up there . . . . 

Crawling, stumbling, walking, he made it over to a stack of boxes. They seemed filled with heavy contents and therefore sturdy. Using only his right hand and arm -- his left one was numb -- he fought his way up every level, coughing, wheezing, hardly able to breathe or see from the smoke, hardly able to focus from the pain and weakness. An inch at a time became his only world as he made it to the top of the boxes. Leaning against the wall, he pushed at the old, rusted lock. It wouldn't budge. 

Precariously perched half-way onto a crate, he put up his right elbow and threw himself into the window. Hacking from smoke-clogged lungs, he felt dizzy from the lack of oxygen. 

The boxes fell out from under his feet while his shoulders and head went through the glass. Scraping through the broken glass, he tumbled onto the street only a few feet below. Waiting there were some uniformed men -- fire and police -- he thought dizzily. They were saying something about his friend. Illya? He'd alerted them. None of it made any sense, and he didn't much care as blessed blackness claimed all his thoughts and senses.   
  
  
  


EPILOGUE 

Yes, here I tender it for him in the court;

Yea, twice the sum: if that will not suffice,

I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er,

On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart:

  
  
  
  


"Wouldn't Dabree love this scene?" 

"What?" Solo wondered miserably. He hated hospitals and this one was one of the worst. 

"We're rooming together --" 

"Don't start, Illya, I'm warning you." 

With a smirk Kuryakin glanced at his friend in the next hospital bed. They would be roommates for several days. Not an isolated occurrence thanks to their profession. Still, after the recent events: their near escape from a very nasty torment, Dabree's misconstrued conclusions -- well, Illya found the glimmer of black humor in it all. 

He took a book from the drawer in their shared nightstand. "I had the nurse bring in some reading material since we will be here for the rest of the week." 

"I'd rather you find those phone numbers of the stewardesses we met on the flight over here." 

The Russian started to read aloud_. 'You shall not seal to such a bond for me. I'll rather dwell in my necessity'_

Solo glared at him for a moment. "If I ever hear you quote from Shakespeare again I'll throw something at you." 

"There was no need for you to sacrifice yourself for me." 

Settling his head into the pillow, Napoleon closed his eyes. "I had every intention of following you. How as I to know the old lady had a suit of armor ready to land on me?" 

"You know what I mean." 

There was warning in the tone. "Illya." 

"It was my own clumsiness that I was captured by them." Embarrassment tinged the words. "Lured into the curio shop by the old plea that they needed a man's help." 

A gurgle of laughter sputtered from Solo. 

"Even if they were after you, I killed her bodyguard David. And if you hadn't killed Elmont I would have. You didn't need to atone or something by throwing your life away." 

Face twisted into an unsavory expression, the American opened his eyes and turned to face his friend. "We're not really going to have this old argument again, are we?" 

Kuryakin stared at him for a moment. 

Flinching, Napoleon edged up on an elbow. "You know my answer, I know yours." The intensity in the brown eyes was unmistakable and unrelenting. "In our own ways we're as crazy as that loony old woman. We could never stand to lose our friend. So we'll to anything to prevent that. Part of being a partnership. And that will never change, tovarich." 

As much as he would wish it to be different, this was one aspect of his partner's personality he could never change. Napoleon would do anything in his power to keep him safe. If there were no other option, that would even include his life. Staring out the window, mesmerized by the dull gray fog close to the glass, he sighed. He would do the same. They both knew it. The certainty enhanced their friendship, prolonged their lives, but created dormant anxieties that would never fade. 

How terrifyingly accurate Dabree had been in her estimate of their commitment to each other. He had been the perfect, most valued bait to lure his friend into a trap. And nothing would have hurt Illya more than losing his partner. 

Illya turned back and stared at him again. "No. No argument." 

Solo gave a satisfied smirk and settled back on his pillow. "Thank you." His face sobered. "For everything." 

"You are entirely welcome." 

Glancing back out the window, Illya hoped they would never have to test their loyalty and commitment to each other again. A pound of flesh would have been a high price to pay, but they would have done it -- and more -- if there were no other choice.   
  
  


**THE END**

  



End file.
